Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Poetry Frayed At the Edges


My head, lopped off my neck by an invisible guillotine of metaphors, rolls to the floor.

 I’ve been submerged in poetry books for the past few days and it feels as if I’m at the  bottom of a dark cauldron bubbling over with icy waters.

So, where do I go from here - after  reading through blogs, magazines and  tortuous palimpsests – only to absorb the treacherous moods inside haunted forests of words?

The handful of poems that I’ve been combing through look somewhat frayed at the edges tonight and my glasses are fogging up already.

But I acknowledge that there is possibly an even more difficult state of mind. 

That other state of mind we call ‘reality’.

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